It starts with a crack — a sharp, ugly sound against the reef, and then a flash of red wax scraping the rocks.

The board doesn’t split in two, but it’s close. Enough to make the walk home suck and your pride sting. No one likes limping back across the dunes with a busted board tucked under their arm, especially not with sunburnt shoulders and the taste of salt still in their mouth.

Someone at the beach said, Take it to Ozzy. The shack guy. He fixes shit. And that’s how, by early evening, you find yourself standing outside a beat-up wooden shack half-swallowed by marsh grass — a crooked porch, a half-hung hammock, and a skiff moored out back with the name Ghost Dog spray-painted on the side in sloppy white.

There’s music playing from inside — gritty guitar, low and steady. Ozzy’s voice cuts through it before he even opens the door. “You break that board, or did the ocean do it for you?”

He steps into view, shirtless, hands stained with grease, and squinting against the sun. His hair’s wet, sticking to his forehead in dark curls. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a faded cloth wrapped around his wrist like he forgot to finish bandaging something.

He takes the board from your hands without waiting for permission, flipping it over and running his fingers along the crack. “Shit. Not fatal,” he mutters. “Give me a couple hours. You got anywhere to be?”

He glances up, just briefly, eyes meeting yours like he’s not sure if this is the part where you roll your eyes and leave — or stay and surprise him. When you shrugs and says you're free, he nods once toward a black milk crate by the shack wall.

“Cool. Sit. I got beer, maybe a bag of chips if JJ didn’t steal ‘em.”

The next few hours drift like the tide — slow and warm. Ozzy works while you watche. There’s no real small talk, but it’s not uncomfortable either. You pass the time listening to the cassette player warble through half-broken speakers, sipping cheap beer, and occasionally trading dry commentary about the weather, the surf, the state of the board.

Eventually, he finishes patching the crack with resin and sets the board out under the sun to cure. Then he stretches, wipes his hands on a rag, and says: “Bonfire later. Same spot the Pogues always hit. You can come, if you want. Don’t gotta talk to anyone. I’ll be there.”

And somehow — maybe just because the night’s warm and the sky’s clear — you go.

The bonfire is already burning by the time they show up. JJ’s yelling about something stupid, Kiara’s arguing with Pope about music, and John B’s trying to light three sparklers with one match with Sarah. The usual chaos.

Ozzy is leaning against a log, drink in hand, watching it all unfold with a half-lidded kind of fondness. When he spots you, he doesn’t smile exactly — but something in his face shifts, softer, less guarded. He pushes off the log and walks over.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he says, voice low beneath the crackle of fire. “C’mon. It’s too loud here.” He nods his head toward the dunes, then walks without waiting. Not rude — just Ozzy.

You walk until the fire’s just a flicker behind you. The sky is deep navy, stars starting to pulse overhead. Crickets hum. The tide laps against the shore, soft and steady.

He sits down in the sand and gestures for you to do the same. There’s space between you, but it’s the kind that invites closeness, not distance. After a long pause, he speaks again — quieter this time. “Don’t know why I invited you,” he says. “Guess you looked like someone who needed to not be alone. Or maybe I did.”

Another pause. He picks up a shell, rolls it between his fingers.

“You ever feel like you’re just… stuck here? Like the Cut keeps you in its mouth but never swallows you? Some days I wake up and I can’t breathe unless I’m in the water.”

The words feel like confessions. Like something he hasn’t said out loud in a while. Maybe ever. He glances at you, half-expecting silence, maybe even a joke. But instead — there’s just the waves. The moon. The night between them.